Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali
by Lena Carr
Summary: Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood. Six stories of women of the Avengers movieverse. Betty Ross, Darcy Lewis, Jane Foster, Maria Hill, Natasha Romanoff, Peggy Carter, Pepper Potts and Sif. Plus assorted heterozygous characters of lesser note. Chapter 6 now posted. Readers - thank you for the encouragement!
1. Lunar Revolutions

**Author's Notes at the end**

* * *

Chapter One: Lunar Revolutions 

_New York, Now_

"Oh, God, let me die now," Darcy mumbled to the ether. Her head felt like Jane's boyfriend was using it to rest Mjolnir on top of her skull and her whole stomach was one enormous ache. That it wasn't going to kill her didn't do anything to make her feel better. She hugged the hot water bottle closer to her gut.

She hadn't even made it to her own bed, just collapsed on the couch like a deflated jellyfish. Ten more hours, maybe twelve. Then she'd think about living. Until then, Jane's suite in Stark's shiny building was a morgue. She could hang a sign on the door – _House of the Dead, go away until the new moon_.

Voices approached in the hall, growing louder as they came. _Should have put up that sign_. The keypad beeped, peevish, as someone fumbled with the lock. "Please god," Darcy muttered, to no deity in particular, "Go away."

"Friend Darcy! We have returned!" And speaking of gods…Thor's voice boomed through the apartment, nearly drowning out the door slamming open. "And we have brought Lady Sif, as you pled in your missive!"

Oh, _God_, Jane and Thor were supposed to have brought Sif with them today, who was to have let Darcy interview her about Asgardian naming conventions for different kinds of kingly decrees. Because Sif had said something about how Odin spoke with the Word of God, but sometimes he muttered, and sometimes he said _pretty please_, and sometimes he opened his mouth and blasted the multiverse with plasma. Or so Thor said, and Darcy had seen _the look_ Sif had given him, and this would _absolutely_ work for her thesis. Darcy was sure of it. As soon as her body cooperated and let her brain work again.

Darcy struggled up on one elbow, then lay back down with a groan, squeezing her eyes shut, one arm hugging the water bottle against her abdomen, and her other hand pressed against her forehead.

"Friend Darcy! The day is yet young! Why do you slumber?"

"Thor, darling…inside voice." And that was Jane, her words sliding like cool water over Darcy's ears. Thor went silent, except for the rumble as he breathed. Darcy could feel it on her skin, which cramped and crawled in time with her stomach.

"Darcy, fair maid, you are unwell! Have you been injured? Show us where you bleed! Was there an attack? We heard no sounds of battle!"

And Darcy knew that Thor meant well, and under other circumstances she would even consider him sweet, but right now if he didn't shut up – or at least lower his voice so it didn't echo - she was going to battle his hammer where the sun didn't shine.

"Easy…she's going to be fine." The couch shifted as Jane perched next to Darcy. A gentle hand touched her cheek. Darcy scrunched her eyes tight against the tears that welled up. "Oh, honey, started early?"

Darcy nodded, sniffed, "I hate being female."

"Shall we summon a conjurer of the elixir of Tums?" Darcy had supplied Thor with a bottle of antacid on the one day the Asgardian had gone to the Mendez buffet and over-eaten armadillo eggs until he gave himself a stomachache. Ever since, Thor thought every pharmacist an alchemist and Tums a cure for every aliment.

Jane was far more practical. "Did you take something?"

Darcy nodded miserably, refusing to take her arm off her eyes. "An hour ago."

"There, there." Jane patted her arm. Darcy smacked at it. God, she hated that. "I hate being female." She did. If only because the world was full of not-female people, like Thor, who had no idea how good their lives were. And who predictably misunderstood her.

"What is this? Fair Darcy, are you with child? Where is the father? Why is he not here to attend to you?"

"Thor, honey, hush. It's not _that_." Then, more quietly, "It's not that, right, Darcy?"

Darcy groaned. "Please. It's the Avengers' Tower, Jane, there is _a maximum_ of zero privacy in this place. Zero. You'd know. They'd all know. And if I was, I wouldn't be feeling like this." She hugged the water bottle harder. "I hate this. Every single month."

Jane murmured encouragement, in the same breath as another alto hiss of sympathy. Even with her eyes shut, Darcy knew that was Sif, who was regal and lethal even as she cuddled white fluffy kittens.

Thor, though… There was an honest-to-God (specific gods, this time, not including lying snake-mouthed bastards like Thor's brother) pause, and when he finally spoke, his voice – a stage whisper that could reach Mars – was suddenly enlightened. And distant. "Ah. Yes. The – ah- this matter, of, ah – Fairest Jane. Is there anything you require?" Thor's voice, no quieter, grew more distant. Like, across the room distant. "Any task, no matter how great, or how small, I am at your service, my heart. I shall go to the Man of Iron, and inquire…"

The door shut on whatever it was that Thor was going to do. In the silence that was left, Darcy slowly lifted her forearm and peeked out. Jane was still staring at the (still shut) door, while Sif had added _amused to the point of snickering_ to _regal _and_ lethal_.

"Did I just – did that – was that Thor _running away_?" Jane, incredulous. "From…from…menstruation?"

The corners of Sif's mouth twitched. "My prince and my brother of battle fears no foe, suffers no fear of any man, save alone my King Odin Allfather. No matter the enemy, Thor would never act the coward."

Darcy snorted. "That was Thor running like a cat with a sausage."

Sif grinned. "Aye."

Jane suddenly looked embarrassed. "Do…ah…Sif, forgive me if I'm impolite, but this is something that, ah, the women of Asgard…"

_Dammit_, Darcy thought, _I'm supposed to be the humanities major here..._ Her notebook was in her purse, which was kicked under the table by the door. She wasn't getting up to get it.

"Oh, aye." Sif looked around, found the backless hassock that Thor favored, over the more fragile framed chairs that scattered the apartment. "May I?"

"Oh, sure," Darcy said, in the same breath that Jane gushed, "Yes, please, sit wherever you like."

Seated, Sif went on. "It is with us as with the women of Midgard, with us, and the most of the nine realms. The Jotuns – they shift forms, male to female and female to male, and I do not know their particulars. It has…not come up, on the occasions that I crossed swords with them. But among the Aesar, yes, we gain adulthood, we bleed, and come into fruit."

"Is it, well, taboo to talk about it? I mean, with men?" There, that was a proper question. And yeah, it was more like anthro than polisci, but at least it was in the same neighborhood, as opposed to, say, _quasars. _Any quasar. All quasars – definitely not local.

Sif cocked an eye at her. "Forbidden? Oh, no – though most men would say the less it was spoken of, the better. Some would say it ill luck to speak of it, when a wife and husband are new to each other, and the woman wistful of bearing. But it comes to all women, even Lady Frigga. And I."

"Is that a problem, you know, when you're out, you know, buckling swashes, and busting heads?"

Sif shrugged. "It is as it is. Some women, they grow weak for a hand of days, from the blood loss. Others – " She waved a hand at Darcy, the water bottle, and the (mostly dry) washcloth on Darcy's hairline. "Some it takes thus, and there are some who are fierce in the lists and on the drilling floor, but there are a multitude of other pursuits a woman may follow. A weaver, a scribe, a tale-smith, a healer."

"Oh." Well, that sucked – even in Asgard, nasty periods cut you out of the action.

"And we have some potions, of course."

"Potion – you have Motrin?" When Sif looked blank, Jane went on, "Medication to ease cramping?"

"Aye, here." Sif dug into one of the pouches on her belt, came up with a bit of folded paper. "These leaves, steeped gently in clear water, and then drunk when cool." Her face sudden turned wistful. "Loki excelled at herb-craft, and he knew how to search out the most potent plants. On long journeys, he would gather them, and bring them to me."

Darcy's hands were suddenly much less grabby after the little packet of super-Motrin. Jane was faster anyway, and intercepted the paper package.

"No. We need to test it first, make sure it isn't anything you're allergic to." To Sif, she said, "Just to be safe. Darcy isn't going to feel any better if this makes her start vomiting."

Sif seemed to accept this without offense. "Take it – I can easily bring more, when I visit again. Darcy –"

A pounding at the door – suspiciously like a boot kicking at floor level - cut across whatever Sif was about to say. "Jane Foster, Lady Sif! I have consulted with the Man of Iron and the Eye of Hawk, and have brought the Lady Natasha."

Another voice said quietly but firmly, "No, you didn't. I brought myself."

The door opened and Thor nearly fell through it, his arms full of round tubs and square boxes. "—and sustenance. I brought sustenance, such as the Man of Iron stated that the Lady Pepper Potts found strengthening. And –" he scowled at the SHIELD agent peeking around the doorjamb. "– I also brought the Lady Natasha." The topmost tub trembled, then slid to one side, taking a box with it in a suicide plunge to the floor.

Romanoff took two fast steps forward and caught both of them before they hit the tile. "No, you didn't. I just followed the person who was unloading Pepper's entire stash of mint chocolate chip and cherry bon-bons." She set the ice cream and box of chocolates down on the coffee table, then turned back to Thor and began relieving him of his burden. "Because," Natasha went on, completely deadpan as she stacked chocolates and tubs on the table, "if I'm going to have to be in the same time zone when Pepper finds that her cache's been raided, I want to have at least tasted it."

She handed two boxes to Sif before setting the last of the ice cream on the table. Thor strode across the room and knelt by the couch. "Friend Darcy, I regret that I can offer no more than this –" He held out the pilfered bon-bons in a massive hand. "Will the cherry-chocolate, do you think, help you recover?"

And when a guy bellowed that at you, especially the boyfriend of a good friend and whatcha-call-it-_mentor_, what was a properly enlightened and self-determinate gal to do, but take the chocolates, smile, and say, "Thank you, Thor, you are the most considerate brawler I know."

Jane leaned in, kissed his cheek. "Well done, sweetheart."

Thor grinned like sunrise and bounded to his feet. "Friend Darcy, Fair Jane, Lady Sif, Lady Natasha – I am off! Call, my friends, if battle beckons!" When he shut the door, the pictures on the wall trembled.

Darcy lay back down and set her arm back over her eyes, grinning despite herself and the ache in her gut.

Jane sighed. "Wow."

Darcy snorted, completely without sympathy. "You sure know how to pick them."

"You going to be okay?"

"Yeah. Gimme a couple of hours, and some chocolate, and I'll be up and at them."

"Wait. Ladies, we have a problem here," Natasha said, suddenly, urgently. Darcy sat up. "Bowls. We need bowls. And to put at least some of this – " She waved a hand at the defrosting stacks " – back in the freezer. I'm serious, Pepper really will pitch a fit if she finds out that Tony gave away all her ice cream." She began sorting the ice-cream. Jane helped. Darcy laid back down. Sif moved two cartons back into the "keep" pile – and three boxes of chocolate.

As the invalid, Darcy contented herself with opening a box of bon-bons. "Here. Take some. For sustenance. On the way back to Pepper's freezer." Jane took one. So did Natasha. Sif took three. "Are you sure I can't try that Asgard Motrin?"

Jane laughed, patted Darcy's arm, and didn't slam the door when they left.

[end]

* * *

**Title:** Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali - Chapter One: Lunar Revolutions

**Summary:** Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood.

**Characters:** Darcy Lewis, Jane Foster, Natasha Romanoff and Sif. Movieverse canon relationships.

**Author's Notes:** Set in movieverse, post-_Avengers_. Thanks to Flora and Kernie for beta - for this section, special thanks to Kernie, Thor partisan extraordinaire, who made me change this section significantly for the better.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; they were broken when I found them.


	2. Quickening

**Author's Notes at the end**

* * *

Chapter Two: Quickening 

_Boston, 2009_

_Beep._

At a quarter past five, the beta-particle transfer-gate modeling program crashed for the fourth time. Betty Ross, halfway through the third revision of a two-year old article on non-homologous end joining in knock-out toads, jumped at the sound. The jerk of her fist dragged the red pen in a wide swipe across the page. On the computer screen, the progress tracker staggered through a second revolution and froze.

_Bloody hell._ Betty snatched for the keyboard. "Oh, no, you don't-" She hammered at the escape key, brought up the C3 menu, cursed again and slammed her hand on the counter in disgust. "Damn you, you idiot piece of fifth rate knock-off electronic doorstop."

From across the lab, Toby called, "Proto-RACK crash again?"

"Yes, dammit. Fourth time today." Betty leaned back in the chair, rubbing at her eyes, one hand going by habit to the curve of her belly. The cursor blinked at her.

"Told you we should have paid for the STARK-PMP."

"No." Betty knotted one fist in her hair and did not snap at Toby. "I told you, if I'm spending half the project budget on one program, it's not going to be that tricked-out excuse for a megalomaniac's overpriced code-bloated first-generation vanity project."

"We could have signed with MIT, gotten the alma mater discount."

"Does no one in this facility hold to intellectual independence and integrity? Besides me, I mean?"

"Hmmm…" Toby's voice grew meditative. "As our budget got halved again this year, from the pittance they promised the year before, I'd say the answer is…no."

Betty groaned, dug at her eyes with the heels of her hands. Across the lab, Toby's chair creaked as he leaned upright again. "Besides, admit it. You just don't like that it has Stark's image as the background on every page."

"Among other things." Betty leaned forward again, dragged the keyboard back into place. The menu still didn't respond. "You worthless – Star Raider Games has a faster computer than I do, Toby."

"They probably paid more for it." He looked back around the corner of the cubicle. "Dr Golder, with the cyanide pump? They got a bad copy, too – said they never did get it working, had to shift to Mitrotrack."

"Mitrotrack is crap. And I'd have to re-run the prelim data, so the comparison would be valid." She sighed, began shutting the workstation down. "Toby, I'm calling it quits today." She shoved away from the counter and felt for her flats.

Toby rolled his chair all the way out into the aisle. "You want a ride?"

"No, I'll walk. I brought my running shoes, it'll be fine." She smiled at him, because his apartment was fifty minutes in the other direction, and Toby had never been anything but sweet to her.

She could not say the same of all of Held lab's staff. She couldn't blame them, either.

It was one thing to hire staff because of their names and connections, or because they earned points for the eternal corporate diversity competition. Or because they had connections, and were a woman in particle physics, _and_ were one of the top up-and-coming bio-radiation researchers in the country.

It was something else entirely, when it turned out the connections were useless and all the promise was just that, _promise_, and not delivery.

And then that mess down in Harlem, last quarter…

Betty swapped her flats for trainers and tucked the flats into her backpack. She practiced breathing deeply up three floors in the elevator, out the security doors, across Fruit and through the long parking lot to Cambridge. It had rained just after lunch, and the air was damp and still cool. Betty shrugged her shoulders under the backpack's light weight and headed down Grove, head up, striding out, eyes flickering across the oncoming traffic.

Halfway home, she had relaxed enough to walk instead of stomp, and give more thought to Toby's suggestions for replacing the software. That led her to drag out her phone and bring up the cost comparisons they'd done last year, when the department head had finally authorized them to put together a new protein-modeling package. She went from head-up and arm-swinging to eyes down and oblivious, and walked half a block past Gardeners before realizing she'd missed her turn.

_Tomorrow_, she thought, and shut the phone off. _Time for supper._

_You know you'll never be nationally ranked_, one of her old lab partners had said. _Not obsessive enough. You'll stop. You'll shut things off. Not stay up all night running and re-running sims…_

Betty had laughed. _I've seen obsessive. I don't need it._

She didn't. She was doing just fine with brilliance and a large beaker of stubborn. She was. She had her father's name and eyes. She didn't need anything else of his.

After dinner, she stacked the dishes in the sink. The phone's message light blinked, a single malevolent eye. She sighed, filled a glass at the sink before clicking the play button. The machine hissed at her. Then her father's voice crackled through the speakers.

_Betty, this is your father. Look, I know we already talked about this, but I really think you should go see one of the doctors on post. I'm concerned about the…the possibilities. If you're going to – if anything - I've talked to one of my friends, head of the maternity –_

She pressed down on the delete button. Hard.

_I will not scream. I will not weep. I will not scream._

She thought of her mother, in Okinawa and Stuttgart and Las Cruces, carrying on alone, while Colonel and then General Ross thundered his way up the chain of command, pushing for greater autonomy, more funds, more attention, while his wife ran the house and raised his daughter all but alone.

General Ross's soldiers had said, _You're your father's girl_…but until she turned fourteen and two months and twelve days, and stood holding her father's hand in a graveyard of white stones, it had been Betty's mother who had raised her and taught her and led her towards adulthood.

In the cemetery, staring at the coffin as it slowly went into the earth, she had held her father's hand longer than she had ever held it before, or since. Colonel Ross had looked at the girl beside him and – as efficiently as possible – had sent her away. Alone.

Betty stood in the kitchen, her breath coming in great gasps, her hands pressed to her mouth.

_My mother survived this. My mother_ did this. M_y mother made this work. I am my father's girl, but I am my mother's daughter. My mother did this._

When she stopped crying, she washed her face, blew her nose, and swept up the broken glass. The envelope from the clinic was where she had left it beside her personal computer in the office nook. She tucked the thumb drive into her pocket, collected her phone and purse, and headed to the T, and the Red Line to Alewife.

At Mechamega Games she took a seat, waiting patiently for one of the non-gaming computers to open up. She kept her head down, plain scarf tucked up around her jaw, feeling the stares of the other customers slide across her skin. It had been a month since she had been here last. No one spoke to her, no one said, _have I seen you before?_ The attendant was a new one – pimpled and greasy-haired, as had been the one before, but female now – and silently took the cash Betty pushed across the table before handing over an anonymous access card without meeting Betty's eyes.

At the open terminal, Betty tugged the chair's seat down before lowering herself gingerly and sitting back with a sigh.

She opened hugeandchartreuse dot blogspot dotcom without looking over her shoulder. The visitor log at the bottom of the blog still read 187, the same as it had last week. She slipped the thumb drive out of her purse and into the port before opening a new entry. The image took its own time uploading. In preview, the photo looked grainy, indistinct. There was no mistaking what the image was – a quarter circle of white on black, full of liquid hypoechoic space and rounded angles approaching bone density – but the features were difficult to make out. The identification square was blacked out, empty. _No name, not yet._

A line from an old song tickled at her memory – _what's your momma's name, child_…

Betty sighed, hit post.

She put her hands on the edge of the desk to push herself away and stand up, but stopped in mid-motion. Instead, she reduced the blogspot screen and opened up _Science Digest_ in a different window. She had paid for half an hour of computer time, might as well use it all. Sometimes Bruce was online, sometimes not.

She had paged through two different – and conflicting – articles on the latest influenza scare before the screen blinked. Comments flickered to 1, then 2.

_Beautiful_

Betty pressed her fingers over her mouth.

The second comment read only _F?_

She laughed shakily, realizing that she'd forgotten to add what the technician had told her. She opened the entry for editing and added a line of text. _Girl. No issues._

The reply was almost instantaneous. _Beautiful. LU._

_Me, too._

The timer in the upper left ticked steadily down. When it read two minutes remaining, the counter flickered again.

_I'm sorry. Wish…_

She shook her head, swallowing hard, and thought _damn you Bruce…_

Jaw clenched, fingers stiff and angry, she typed, _I'm not. No regrets. LU. B safe. _Hit send.

She had no regrets, no second guesses. None. Not for the new job, the new town, not for leaving the university system. Not for opening the door in the middle of the night, when she had known who stood on the other side, and what could come of it.

The timer spun down. _Your session has expired. Do you want to buy more time?_

She breathed in, breathed out, pushed away and stood. One hand touched the mouse, clicked _no_. The other hovered in an arc over her belly. Then she collected her purse, turned, and walked out.

Not away. Out, and up the road, toward the taxi stand, and the next thing.

[end]

* * *

**Title:** Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali - Chapter Two: Quickening

**Summary:** Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood.

**Characters:** Betty Ross. Movieverse canon relationships.

**Author's Notes:** Set in movieverse, post-_The Incredible Hulk _(2008)_,_ but draws heavily from characterization in Aug Lee's _Hulk_ (2003). (The author is well aware that there may be no more than three people on the North American continent who prefer the Aug Lee version. The author is okay with this.) The Held lab at Mass General, the MTA, and all internet cafes and gaming establishments in the greater Boston area are used fictitiously. Thanks to Flora and Kernie for beta.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; they were broken when I found them.


	3. Corporate Benefits

**Author's Notes at the end**

* * *

Chapter Three: Corporate Benefits 

_International Airspace, Now_

* * *

**To:** director at shieldbasenet 

**From:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet 

**Subject:** Subordinate Overdue for Mandatory Appointment (Hill, M)

Dear Supervisor:

You are listed as the immediate reporting official for AGENT HILL MARIA. This is to notify you that your subordinate AGENT HILL MARIA is deficient in medical readiness in the following areas:

ANNUAL PELVIC EXAM

ANTHRAX VACCINE BOOSTER

Previous attempts to resolve this deficiency and return your subordinate to full medical readiness have been unsuccessful. Please take appropriate steps to ensure your subordinate completes the required steps to resolve the issue.

If your subordinate has already resolved this issue, please disregard. If your subordinate reports that this message was transmitted in error, AGENT HILL MARIA should contact this office to discuss faulty reporting. If you are no longer the immediate reporting official for AGENT HILL MARIA, contact personnel division, database maintenance, to update reporting official information. Please be aware that this may take up to three weeks to update in all records.

Sincerely

I.D. Sanchez-Ramos

Deputy Surgeon, SHIELD

* * *

**To:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**From:** director at shieldbasenet

**Subject:** FW: Subordinate Overdue for Mandatory Appointment (Hill, M)

Agent Hill –

This is information I did not need to know. Take whatever steps you need (short of bodily or mainframe damage) to ensure I go on not knowing this.

_**N. Fury**_

PS – Quit ducking the medics and get your damn booster shots.

* * *

**To:** director at shieldbasenet

**From:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**Subject:** RE: Subordinate Overdue for Mandatory Appointment (Hill, M)

Sir – Roger. Won't happen again.

Hill

* * *

**To:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**From:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**Subject:** FW: Subordinate Overdue for Mandatory Appointment (Hill, M)

IZZIE. WHAT THE HELL. This went to FURY, for God's sake. (I think he went blind in his other eye.)

DON'T SEND THIS TO HIM AGAIN.

M

* * *

**To:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**From:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**Subject:** RE: The medical readiness subroutine you approved last quarter

Remember the hissy fit you threw over the lousy compliance with the flu vaccination? I told you supervisor notifications was over-reaction.

Best –

IZ

* * *

**To:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**From:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**Subject:** RE: The medical readiness subroutine you approved last quarter

Okay, you were right. (Be sure you print out this email.) Just don't send another note like that to Fury. My face is still scarlet and I haven't looked him in the eye for two days.

M

* * *

**To:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**From:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**Subject:** RE: The medical readiness subroutine you approved last quarter

You want Fury off this email chain? Let me lay out the options.

Get a new first line supervisor (if you're looking for options, I need a new medical transcriber who understands medical Mandarin to work with Wu. I think you'd be very useful there.)

Disable the supervisor notifications (fair warning – MED will non-concur with this COA – we're up to 97 percent on H1N2 vaccinations, and as soon as I have you and Fury updated, we'll be 100 on anthrax.)

Get a hysterectomy. (Of course, you'll be on medical leave for two weeks. I hear Drews is eager for a chance to run the helm, he'd be glad to take over in your absence.)

QUIT BLOWING OFF APPOINTMENTS AND GET YOUR ANNUAL EXAM.

Your choice.

* * *

**To:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**From:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**Subject:** RE: Medical Readiness

Iz. This is ridiculous. I don't have time for this. Get me off the list.

* * *

**To:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**From:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**Subject:** RE: Medical Readiness

Maria –

As the deputy director, you don't have the ability to step away from your desk for a half hour appointment? And yet I supposedly have time to personally hand-carry three thousand personnel to their vaccine appointments.

Get real. Quit welching out of appointments.

* * *

**To:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**From:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**Subject:** RE: Medical Readiness

Izz. I'm begging you. I hate those exams.

* * *

**To:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**From:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**Subject:**RE: Medical Readiness

Quit whining. You're worse than Agent Romanoff. It's not like I'm using hot irons on you. Put on your big girl pants and deal.

* * *

**To:** director at shieldbasenet

**From:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet

**Subject:** Subordinate Readiness Review

This email is notification that according to medical section records, all SEVENTEEN of your immediate reporting subordinates are currently GREEN on medical readiness.

* * *

**To:** deputydirector at helicshieldnet 

**From:** director at shieldbasenet

**Subject:** Re: Subordinate Readiness Review

Good job.

NF

* * *

**To:** ISCCHAIR at shieldbasenet 

**From:** surgeonsenior at shieldbasenet 

**Subject:** Subordinate Overdue for Mandatory Appointment (Fury, N)

Dear Supervisor:

You are listed as the immediate reporting official for DIRECTOR FURY NICHOLAS. This is to notify you that your subordinate DIRECTOR FURY NICHOLAS is deficient in medical readiness in the following areas:

ANNUAL DIGITAL PROSTATE EXAM

ANTHRAX VACCINE BOOSTER

Previous attempts to resolve this deficiency and return your subordinate to full medical readiness have been unsuccessful. Please take appropriate steps to ensure your subordinate completes the required steps to resolve the issue…

[end]

* * *

**Title:** Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali - Chapter Three: Corporate Benefits

**Summary:** Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood.

**Characters:** Maria Hill. Movieverse canon relationships.

**Author's Notes:** Set in movieverse, post-_The Avengers. _For anyone who has been involved in a similar email exchange - thank you for your service. For those who have not: one might consider this a preview of universal preventative healthcare. Thanks to Flora and Kernie for beta.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; they were broken when I found them.


	4. Water Child

**Author's Notes at the end.**

* * *

Chapter Four: Water Child

_Balkans and elsewhere, 2005 to 2011  
_

There's a game they played, the two of them, when it was only them and the cold hours of the night, the long golden afternoons and the pale sky before dawn; when the readiness is all and the fate of the target has been determined but is still yet to come. In those endless non-moments of Schrödinger-time, while the dead still walk and smile and breathe, a pair of master assassins found amusements to keep their sanity.

It began with Clint, as did most of their worst habits – including their partnership. In the chill air of an unlit warehouse in Minsk, tucked close to his bow to keep the shivers manageable and his voice pitched for her ears only, he said, "I say we blow this popsicle stand, sweetheart."

Natasha's silhouette – one shoulder and a knee and three gloved fingers – shifted against the window. It was no more than a deep breath, but Clint took it as assent and grinned to himself. Waited.

Her breath was a shadow of white against the streetlamps. "Where would you have us go? And how will we earn our bread?" More than assent – she's far worse at patience than he, for all that she's practiced longer, and that night, she wanted to play.

"Oh, we'd figure something out."

"Surely, my man with the plan, you already have something in mind."

"We could move to Mongolia, and raise little winged ponies to sell to the Chinese tourists."

"No way. Too much sun."

"Argentina, then, out on the plains where it's always cloudy."

"Too wet. My hair would frizz."

"But you like the little winged ponies."

A gleam of eyes and teeth in the darkness. "Maybe. How are they with ginger and mustard?"

He stuffed his fingers in his mouth to keep from snickering out loud. Natasha made a motion with one finger, a tick in the air. It was enough to keep him warm the rest of the night.

Seven months later, in Cordova, west of the Rio Plata, he had to agree that her hair did not love the humidity. "So you pick."

January below the equator, and all their clothes clung to them as they waited in the airless apartment. Clint had been on watch for an hour while Natasha sprawled on the bed, not sleeping. Three trucks and five bicycles passed before she answered, long enough for Clint to decide she was ignoring him. But she drew in a breath and said, "Montana. We can plant potatoes, brew good vodka and flavor it with wild strawberries."

"Idaho is where you grow potatoes."

"Which is why we go to Montana. SHIELD will look for us in Idaho."

"What about HYDRA? They'd look for us in Montana."

"Not very hard."

"Global Nation would, though, tight-wound territorial inbred bastards that they are."

"True…" Natasha flipped over on the bed, a faint squeak of ancient springs, and propped her chin on her hands. "Remember that cute little compound they had by the Canadian border? The one with the black oaks?"

Clint snorted. "I remember those trees leaked like hell in the rain and had really annoying magpies. Almost as bad as whatzname, that handler with the sniffles."

"The magpies were also cute." Her voice was meditative. "We could look there, see if GN would let us join up."

Clint actually took his eye off the scope and turned halfway around to look at Natasha. She gazed back, guileless as a cloud. Clint bent his head back to the eyepiece. "Okay, you had me going there."

"Come on. They thought us both outstanding genetic material."

"Nat. Seriously. They bathed once a week. In ice water. Which, yes, was attractive on you, but not my ball of wax."

"I don't remember your _balls_ having an issue with the cold."

"That's mean. And here I was being complimentary."

Natasha rolled over again. "We could plant junipers instead, for gin."

"In Montana?"

"Yemen. Find some hilltop town, correct the water distribution system-"

"In Yemen? What would that take? This is beginning to sound like work, not retirement."

"Fifteen kilos of semtex should do the job." She inspected her nails. "Maybe twenty."

"Definitely sounding like work. And the distribution would be even more work. Hows about we stick to non-Muslim countries if we're going to be producing hard alcohol."

"Thought you liked challenges."

"I could deal with a boring retirement."

Natasha launched a pillow at the back of his head. "Liar." Clint batted it away without looking. "False, cad, _lgoon_, _lgoon_ who vends hornless cattle. You would mope and sulk and grow annoying."

"Maybe you've got a point. But I got sand in a lot of not very fun places in Yemen. How about Taiwan?"

Whatever Nat thought of Taiwan, it took her too long to think of it, and she dozed off before replying.

Six hours later, the hit squad showed up, _finally_. After the dust settled, Coulson wrangled them a fast flight out, and it was back home to SHIELD and hot showers and lousy cafeteria food and another set of electronic toys.

A month after that, during the first field test of the toys (subsonic neural disrupter that doubled as a ranging beacon [mostly worked], and another attempt at a secure-coms earring-mike that would survive a trek in the woods [mostly didn't]), Clint slipped off a wet rock and down fifteen meters of Canadian granite. While she sat with him, waiting on the extract team to haul them out – because it was a training exercise, and by the time Nat got down the cliff and finished cursing Barton for not having the integrity to break his neck instead of spraining his ankle, it really had started raining, and the chopper declined to do a non-priority evac during a thunderstorm - Natasha grilled Clint on specifics of their income generation in Taiwan. Clint shrugged it off. "I changed my mind. Zimbabwe. Booksellers. You can run the printing press, I'll mind the book store."

Which made as much sense as any of it ever did.

* * *

The first step she takes out of the _pension_, he knows something has gone wrong.

Natasha looks the other way, half-skipping down the steps, mink-brown hair waving in the wind, sunglasses on against the bright sun. She has on the blue scarf and the larger bag, the white one, slung over her left shoulder, and those two together mean _mission accomplished, time to skip town_, and all he should feel is relief. Instead, something's wrong, a sinking feeling in his gut; it taints the satisfaction that should be running through him. They were done, they were going home, and he was actually going to have Natasha in visual range and under proper cover for the first time in six weeks, but Natasha walks away down the street and something is _wrong_.

Clint pulls the curtain closed, snatches up the bags, and runs for the stairs.

Zagreb in 2011 was a long con, and he hated them worse than even the tux-and-jewel affairs. Hated them worse when it was Nat going under alone, twice as much when they couldn't use hidden coms, three times as much when he was running over-watch without permission to shoot when he got the chance.

Six weeks – forty-seven miserable days of sitting and watching, waiting as Nat worked her way into the confidence of the Bosniak gangster boss's under-achieving son, and from there to get an angle on the old man himself, with nothing for Clint to do but maintain the lightest of contacts – to be seen, every other day, in one of a series of cafes, and to keep watch, during four irregularly spaced periods during the day, for any signal from Nat. Nat was running the op. Nat was making the hit. Nat was signaling with _fashion accessories_, and Clint could kill the person who thought up the idiot scheme, except, hey, _that _was Clint.

And Nat was a professional at this. Nat was so good it was terrifying. More than once, in those brief seconds of contact – a brush of eyes across each other, a dropped note, a shrug of the head as the other one turned away – Clint was left with a sense of wonder, a half-familiar sense of awe that Nat was _that_ good – she could smile, and flirt, and lean in close, and make any one believe. Not just batting the eyes and being sweet, but frowning, and taking offense, and (in one memorable scene early in the second week) jumping straight out of a vehicle as it came to a stop at a traffic light.

The boss's son had stopped the car and climbed out, shouting after Natasha, and then at her back. She'd kept walking. Clint, watching over a newspaper and a coffee, had stared as the guy reached back in the car, bringing out Natasha's black purse and shaking it at her. She'd kept walking.

The gangster's boy had shouted again, then leaned back like a pro pitcher and hurled the handbag in to the river.

The gangsters owned a _pension_ facing a plaza, south of the Gornji Grad. Barton took an apartment facing north – the damp side of the street, with lichen on the moldings and dark streaks eaten into the wall. From the window upstairs, he had a clear line on the _pension's_ front steps. For thirty-eight days, Barton traced the line of the afternoon shadows across the plaza. The first week, the dark edge lay beyond the fountain's lip. The next, it touched the rim. He watched the shade lap over the green-tinged water daily, drinking deeper every day.

Then it began to creep back.

Coulson was with him, on and off, for the first three weeks. Then Fury called, and Coulson slipped back down the river to the Adriatic, and left Clint alone to stare down the street at dusk and midnight and half past ten and at three in the afternoon. Which was good enough as it went, because even Coulson got on Clint's nerves after two weeks of over-watch. And, yes, there was a point where it was good that Clint wasn't by himself – like right after the purse-throwing incident, when Natasha went on a road trip with the gangster's boy, and didn't call, and didn't show, and didn't show for four days – then it was good that Clint had someone to argue with, and tell Coulson _no, she's got it, she can handle it, wait, don't be stupid_. Because left to his own devices, Clint wouldn't have waited that long. And Nat would have carved strips off him with her tongue, if he'd jacked up her op.

On the fourth day, under duress, Clint made a wrong number call to Nat's cell, and it was like spring birdsong to hear her voice on the other end saying, _sorry, no one here by that name, no, no problem, good day_ – it was great to have Coulson around then, too, because Clint got to say, _I told you so_.

It would have been better, if the little niggling worry hadn't started then, and refused to go away.

Coulson went, leaving Clint alone and with far too long to think about that bit of worry, waiting and listening to Coulson's requests for progress reports. _A bird in the hand is worth a hand in the bush_, he told Coulson, and it was worth it to hear Coulson roll his eyes over the satellite phone. He was reduced to breathing down Clint's neck via coms, because Strantov just popped up again in Kiev, and they needed Natasha back up there, and something was going on in New Mexico, and they need Clint there, and both of those projects should have taken priority over a two-bit gangster whose primary sin was laundering money for a mass-murdering dictator a decade back. Well, and assassinating local mayors since.

"We need to make a delivery next week," Coulson finally said, and he meant, _pull her out, close it down_. "Remember that we have other clients."

"This job's almost done," Clint said, just as he had for days, and kept that little ant of worry out of his voice. Because he'd seen Natasha every day for nearly a week, and he knew she was making progress. She went out to dinner the night before – she, the gangster and his chubby son, her arm tucked in the son's flabby grip. A happy family.

Coulson sighed. "We can't afford to miss this deadline," as if he were telling Clint something he didn't already know. Clint was confident in the plan, and he was more confident in Natasha, but damn, this was cutting it close.

And then Natasha walked out at eight pm local, a dark hat in her hand, and it meant, _get ready_.

* * *

Ten hours later, the gangster's son goes out for his morning jog. Six weeks with Natasha has been enough to turn the corpulent sluggard into an overweight jogger with comical over-propagation and a tendency towards a florid cast after five minutes of cardio. In the days of watching, Clint's had time to wonder what the kid would have been like under some decent influence. Ten minutes after the boy leaves, the old gangster is laid out on his bed with ten milliliters of insulin crashing and burning his body, and Natasha is jogging down the steps, and Clint has his bag ready, and the heavy case, and Natasha's backup bag, and runs for the stairs.

He catches her halfway to the station.

They pass a chemist, green cross on a white square, and Natasha breaks stride, as though one of the cobblestones broke under her boot. He bumps her elbow, holds out a hand. She passes her bag without comment and doubles back to the chemist.

_Stomach bug_, he tells himself. But he knows what Natasha looks like, loose at both ends and miserable. This is something different.

She joins him at the train station three minutes after he arrives, knotting a plain scarf over her hair.

They wait for the train together - she seated on the bench, hands folded in her lap, one bag at her ankle and the other beside her on the bench. He leans against the pillar, staring back at the central station. Twice he decides to swap their tickets for the connection to Budapest, and twice he changes his mind and holds to the plan.

On the Belgrade train they take separate seats. Only his personal bag goes in the luggage bin by the door.

He gets off at the suburban station and hails a cab. Half an hour later, it deposits him at a downtown hotel in the white city.

He's still in the lobby forty-five minutes later, keys in his pockets, and the heavy bag digging at his shoulder, when Natasha pushes the door open.

The lobby tv station is tuned to national news, running the same clip over and over. They are reporting multiple deaths in Zagreb – the mobster, by natural causes, plus others in an escalating power struggle. As she comes through the door, the tv flashes a picture of the gangster's son and reports that he, too, is dead – shot by his own guards.

Because Clint has seen the clip, he watches Natasha. Her eyes shutter and turn away, flick back to meet Clint's, and then are dragged back to the tv screen. Natasha has a bag of take-out in her hand, a bottle of water in the other, and a quarter liter of vodka in her coat pocket.

There is little to say to that. "I'll find some ice," Clint says. Natasha turns away from the tv and makes a face. In a way, this is encouraging, because she still has enough humor to be picky about how she drinks her vodka.

They find an ice dispenser on the back stair, interior black with mold. Over the grind of the ice hopper, he says, "He seemed an all right sort. Just lousy luck in parents." Nat does not laugh, only shakes her head and follows him up the stairs.

He goes carefully though the room, pulling back curtains, running his fingers along the base boards, up-ending the phone, the lamps, the ashtrays. Natasha's behind him, climbing on a chair to reach the ceiling lamp and the smoke detector.

"Well, at least the bathroom has a door on it this time." He pulls it shut, but the door pops open again as soon as he releases the handle. "Dammit."

"Light works," Nat said, and drops down off the chair. "How's the phone?"

"Dial tone, maybe it works." He reaches into the bath, attacks the water fixtures. "Water heater's electric, looks new. Might not change our hair style. Electrically."

"Clear then?"

Clint shrugs. "Clear."

"Dibs on bathroom." She pushes past him, a brush of her fingers over his flank. The vodka is in a trash bucket of ice and the take-out is getting cold.

"Fine, be that way." He flops down on the bed and considers the ceiling mold.

The bathroom door creaks open. Nat mutters something in Russian, kicks the door. The toilet flushes. The bathroom door swings open again, creaking over the sound of running water. Clint groans, levers himself off the bed, and picks up the vodka out of the ice. His elbow knocks his backpack off the table, spilling everything out. Including Nat's backup cell. Clint drops the vodka back in the ice, snatches up the cell and puts a hand on the bathroom door to shove it closed again. "Nat, I got your cell -

Natasha stands in the doorway, staring at something in her hand. Not her cell. Clint looks away, then back again, and Nat still stands there with a long plastic rectangle in her hand. She cocks her head at him, considering, then gives permission – a dip of the shoulder – _come here, if you want_.

He eases closer. She sets the test down on the counter with a click, stands staring at it. Clint leans against the doorframe. A pair of footsteps pass in the hall, turn the corner and are gone.

Natasha turns her wrist up to check her watch, sighs. Puts her hand on the white plastic rectangle and pushes it away.

Clint reaches out and lays his hand over hers. He draws the test to him, together with her hand, lifts her fingers away. She let her hand grasp his, long, cool fingers tucked in his palm.

Three minutes. He's had no time to think, to start to work a plan.

She's had days – weeks.

Close. Too close. No perspective. No clear line on a target. All the angles run through Natasha.

"So." She meets his eyes in the mirror. "That satchel he threw away, the first week."

"Yes." He's never heard her voice this quiet. It could be only a thought, it is that voiceless.

Clint lets her fingers slide through his hand. He shoves himself off the doorframe and sets the cell phone down by the vodka, the plastic case gritting over the dust on the table. With slow strides, he crosses the room, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. At the window he runs his fingertips up the window frame, touches the heater, turned and marches back. Stops a handsbreath from Nat.

Natasha is still folded against the bathroom counter, looking through the wall at Kiev. He reaches for her, lets his hand drop.

"We can go."

She straightens, stares at him. She blinks as Clint moves closer, hands fisting at his sides, words tumbling over each other.

"Trains leave every hour. Ten hours, we can be in Berlin. Or Estonia. We can dump the gear along the way, sell it for cash. I've got a list of buyers – you've got more. Papers – papers are easy. We can lie low, find a place out of the way. Eat beans, drink cheap wine. Find something to do – janitor, streetsweeper. We can…" He stops, draws a shuddering breath. "There's always Mongolia. And the ponies." Another breath. "If you want."

She keeps her eyes on his. He stares back, breaths still coming fast. She waits, and the silence wears thin, begins to fray, and finally he looks away.

"Or. Or. Not. Later. Maybe. Or Montana." He brings a hand up to his head again. "God."

"_Clint_."

Without turning back to her, he reaches out, blindly, and she steps in close. His arms curl around her, his hand cupping her head, callused finger tips scratching the skin behind her ears. She slides her palms around his waist, under the open jacket.

She lets out her breath in a long shudder. He can feel her breathing – quick, light, the slight catch that means she's upset. His arms tighten around her, then relax, still holding her close. "Here?" he asks. "I mean, now, or do you want to wait until we hit CONUS? _God_," he says again, around a thickness in his throat, "Serbia, but better than Bosnia…"

"SHIELD," she says against his chest. "It can – I can wait. I'd rather – Sanchez has a list. Cleared facilities. I've talked… talked with her about options before. Two days, maybe three. It's okay."

He sighs, tucks her head under his chin. "It's okay," he repeats, voice thick with misery. "You're going to be okay. We got the mark, we're clean, we're good. It's okay."

She nods, a brush of hair against his face. "We're good."

[end]

* * *

**Title:** Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali - Chapter Four: Water Child

**Summary:** Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood.

**Characters:** Natasha Romanoff. Movieverse canon relationships.

**Author's Notes:** _lgoon_ = liar, in Russian. Set in movieverse, pre-_Avengers_, pre-_Iron Man_, pre-_Thor_. The reader would be well-advised to avoid assigning any particular political stance to the author based on opinions or choices of characters in this story. Thanks to Flora and Kernie for beta.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; they were broken when I found them, _I swear_.


	5. Kingmaker

**Author's Notes at the end.  
**

* * *

Chapter Five: Kingmaker

_Chicago, Now_

Steve strode quietly down the dim-lit hall, trying to keep his boots from squeaking on the waxed floor.

Four floors below, in the emergency levels, the queer light from florescent bulbs filled every square foot of space. Seventy years, and they hadn't been able to make florescent light look _real_. Here, the maternity floor seemed inclined to honor daylight hours. Following the directions of the duty nurse, Steve passed four suites – doors cracked open, rooms dark inside – and took the first left. Second room, then – its door stained light pine, and propped open a hand's width, with a hand-lettered sign that read _P. Potts (m) _in black marker.

A dim light ran at ankle height around the edge of the room – scant, but enough illumination to show Bruce Banner slumped in a chair at the far wall, unshaven chin in his hand and eyes closed. In the bed, Pepper lay curled toward the door, hand tucked under her cheek and yellow-gold hair spilling over the pillow. Her face was drawn – the lines deeper than they had been a week before, her eyes bruised. But in the dim light, she looked clean, peaceful.

Steve stopped by Bruce's chair, put a hand on the older man's shoulder. No response. He squeezed a bit harder, shook at Bruce's arm, and then gritted his teeth as Bruce's hand clamped down on his wrist. Bones creaked. Steve rode it out. A breath, then another, and the grip eased.

"Sorry," Bruce breathed.

"'S okay," Steve murmured back. "Courier's on the roof, they'll give you a ride back, if you're ready."

Bruce hesitated, looking at Pepper. Steve smiled and nodded, _don't worry, I've got them_. Bruce nodded back, levered himself out of the chair, and moved quietly to the door, slow and clumsy in his borrowed shoes.

The door snicked closed like a cycling fifty-cal. Steve winced. Pepper opened her eyes and blinked, rolled away to look at the clear-sided plastic box on the other side of the bed, and then back to Steve.

"Hey," she said softly, and shoved herself upright, grimacing as she did. Steve stepped close, pulling the pillow into place so she could sit up.

She murmured _thank you_, and waved Steve toward the other chair. He settled into it, conscious of the exhaustion in her movements.

He'd caught a nap on the Quinjet courier, both ways, and a ninety-second shower on the Blacktop. It felt like an un-earned indulgence, made him feel like a fraud.

Pepper leaned back with a sigh. "How _are_ you?" she asked, as if they had just met on the street.

"I think I'm supposed to ask you that." Pepper quirked an eyebrow at him. "Fine. I'm fine. How are you? How is the baby?"

She smiled sweetly. "Fine. We're both fine. Thanks to you."

"I didn't do anything," Steve said, and never meant it more in his life.

"Oh, Steve. Do you know how much you're my hero? You were a rock. I couldn't have done that without you. And I couldn't have done it with Tony having hysterics on the other end of an open com line." She swallowed a cough. "Sorry. Tore up my throat. I'm sorry about screaming on you."

"You were fine. You didn't scream that much." She hadn't. She had cried a bit, on and off, and grated out curse after curse through gritted teeth while she held to his forearms, the tendons standing out from her neck. But she hadn't screamed that much, even when the wall had come down around the corner from the basement closet they'd taken refuge in.

That had been early on, though, when Steve was certain that they'd – that _he'd_ – be rescued at any moment; that Tony or Bruce or Natasha – each and all a better choice for a pregnant woman trying to have a baby than one Steve Rogers – would appear, and take Pepper in hand, and make things…better. Easier. _Over_.

Instead, the crashing of small-arms fire and interior explosions kept going on, and on, with the building shuddering around them, Steve's cell phone cutting in and out, and Pepper's contractions growing closer and closer together, until it seemed to be one long endless scream.

"I thought I'd see Tony here."

"He came with us – when you left with Clint – how is he?" she asked, around a yawn.

"Broken arm, likely needs plating, they'll operate tomorrow."

"Oh, God."

Steve shrugged. "Nat didn't seem too worried. When did you find out about Clint being hurt?"

"Tony told me everything. Well, told me a lot. And after the doctors got done, he was here, and we fed the baby, and he was here when I went to sleep, after they brought the baby back from all the tests. They gave me some _very_ good drugs. If Tony went to buy me something, I think this time I'm going to let him."

"He's not –" _here_. Steve sighed. Of course not. "He wasn't angry at you, was he?"

"Oh, no, why would he be?"

Steve let out a sigh, and felt some of the day's tension fade. "Just – it felt a lot like lying, not telling him what was going on."

"Oh, Steve." She smiled – fondly and warmly and _Steve, darling, you are such a silly man _all at once. "For an honest man, you lie brilliantly. No, he's not mad at all." She looked closer at him. "What?"

Steve sat back, looked anywhere but at her. "Just –"

_Tony should have been there._ It should have been Tony walking escort to Pepper as she wandered through the Chicago Energy Expo, Tony standing attendant on his girl – his woman – now, _then_, as far gone pregnant as she was. As she had been. It should have been Tony who noticed the trio of strangers, who turned out to be HYDRA, blocking the door. And it should have been Tony there, to protect Pepper and get her to safety, instead of going down the wrong stairwell, and getting them both trapped two levels below the surface. It should have been Tony who was with her for eighteen hours while the SWAT counter-assault got chewed to pieces and SHIELD pulled the helicarrier across the Great Lakes and into position.

It should have been Tony who held Pepper when she'd sworn and sweated, wept and bled. When her flesh finally parted, and the baby – _Tony's baby_ – had slipped out, slid free in a messy gush of fluid and blood, it should have been Tony's hands to catch the little boy. It should have been Tony watching as his son drew his first breath, the flush of pink washing over the baby as he gasped for air and began to _live_.

Pepper was still looking at him. Steve hesitated, then gave up.

He'd done those things, he'd been there, with Pepper, who'd done all the work. But he could not bring himself to speak of it. Instead he said, "I'm glad Tony wasn't upset."

"There's nothing to be upset over. You were magnificent. The baby's fine. You did a great job – like you'd done that before."

Steve shook his head ruefully. "I wish I had. There were a couple times when the Howling Commandos got into situations with civilians, but Bucky and I, we always managed to be elsewhere. Our medic, Dave Dyson – he delivered babies a couple of times…"

He trailed off, remembering Dyson, and a thin, dark-haired woman in a well-patched dress, holding a baby in one hand, and grasping Dyson with the other, demanding to know, to know Dyson's name…

"Um. So. They said – they said the baby is all right."

Pepper smiled again. "Just perfect. Eight pounds, nine ounces. Ten fingers, ten toes."

If it had been his baby, if it had been a woman that Steve loved, and it had been someone else there, someone else to see that, to understand, at long last, the miracle –

- because it _was_ a miracle – this was how everyone began – _everyone_…Steve and Pepper and Bucky and Tony and Natasha and his mother and his father and Colonel Phillips and Peggy and even Fury and Hitler and Schmidt – everyone began like that, in a horrible mess of blood and a woman sweating and swearing and afraid and in pain, and that was how everyone was made, that was how everyone _became_, and it was a miracle, better than any serum or any magic –

- if it had been another person who had held the baby, Steve would have envied them for the rest of his life. As it was, he was half in mourning that he would not ever do that again, for the first time, and half in awe of Pepper, and every woman on the planet, to the point of never being able to speak to one again.

The duty nurse came in then, tapping at the door and calling out good morning. "Time to check for bleeding," she said, and that brought up more memories of the day before, and all the blood Pepper had lost, and from where. Pepper grimaced, evidently remembering as well.

"Out of the way, mister, just be a minute." The nurse nudged Steve out of his chair and tugged the curtain around Pepper's bed.

"I'll – ah, I'll just –" Steve said to the curtain, caught between abashed and _who does she think she is?_

"No, wait, Steve, just a minute." Pepper's disembodied voice was definitive. There was a quiet murmur of satisfied female voices, then rustling bedclothes. "Good enough," the nurse said, "Good job, for a home birth." Steve felt his jaw tighten at that. But when the curtain snapped back, Pepper looked pleased. Steve held his peace. The nurse went on to the bassinet, began poking at the contents. A thin, pitiful noise rose to fill the room.

"Very good," the nurse said. "Likely hungry now."

Pepper said, "Time to eat." The nurse looked at Steve and asked, "Are you the father?"

He felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair. "No, no. Not me."

The nurse snorted. Pepper laughed outloud. "Steve, it's okay. You've already held him once."

So he held the baby again, three entire steps from the bassinet to Pepper's side, and it wasn't until Pepper had taken the baby and was picking at the string tying her top shut that Steve put two and three together.

"I'll just – I'll be –" But Pepper had slipped one arm out of her gown and maneuvered a pillow under her elbow. "Steve, really, at this point, I don't have much modesty left. You can stay." The nurse snorted again and shut the door as she left.

At that point it would have been rude to jump up and run off. "Have you um. Picked a name?"

"Howard, for Tony's father." Pepper shifted the baby, swapping ends so the baby faced back and up. "We're still talking about a middle name. I like Stephen, but Tony was still fixed on Edison."

Well. Maybe Tony would have his way. "Edison is a good name. Sensible."

The baby twisted its head back and forth, then made a surprised noise in the same moment that Pepper said, "Ow."

Steve drifted back, perched in the seat again. After a while he said, "He's beautiful. Howard."

Pepper's fingers trailed over the translucent skin, traced the raven hair. "Yes, yes he is. Aren't you, baby? And tired. Time to rest up, you've got a whole world before you. A big, beautiful, wonderful world, just waiting for you." She smiled at the baby, pressed a kiss to his forehead.

How long Steve would have gone on watching them, he did not know. When his phone beeped, he started and dug in his pocket. The text was brief. "I'll be going," he said to Pepper. "The courier's on the way back – they want me on the helicarrier. I think it needs to get off the border, back over international water, before we start counter-strikes." Steve came to his feet. "Tony should be back soon." He realized he had no idea what Tony would buy her – a diamond the size of a coconut? An island?

"Steve?"

He stopped, his hand on the door. Pepper's eyes were still on the baby.

"Do you remember what you said? About HYDRA, and the al-Qaida cell, and the rest?"

Pepper's nails had dug into his forearms, and she'd been exhausted, still struggling, sweating and shivering both. He had said a lot of things – mostly meant as encouragement, some just as desperate noise.

_I will end them_, he'd said – he'd sworn. _I will hunt them down, and end them all, and you won't ever have to be afraid like this again, you'll be safe, I promise, you and the baby, you'll be safe, I swear, I will end them._

He'd meant every word of that. It wasn't his baby. Pepper wasn't even his girl. He still meant every syllable.

Now he said, "I remember."

Pepper leaned back, grimacing, and pulled the baby closer. "Good," she said. She wasn't smiling. "I'll hold you to that."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve said, and didn't salute as he turned to leave, to go out and save the world.

[end]

* * *

Title: Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali - Chapter Five: Kingmaker

Summary: Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood.

Characters: Pepper Potts. Movieverse canon relationships.

Author's Notes: Set in movieverse, post-_Avengers. _ With thanks to the parents of my nieces and nephews, and the two midwives in my extended family, for background and context. Thanks to Flora and Kernie for beta.

Disclaimer: Not mine; they were broken when I found them.


	6. Eris at Evening

**Author's notes at the end.**

* * *

Chapter Six: Eris at Evening

_London, 1970_

She woke before daybreak, when the pale light seeped through the window. A red morning, laying a faint rose shadow across the bedspread. The last of her dreams slipped away, leaving memory in its wake – a particular morning in the Ardennes, frigid and wet, but with a dawn that broke red and glorious and breathtaking. She had stood watching the sky shift and deepen and fade by turns, her throat closing at the sight of so much bloody beauty. As the glory began to fade, she became aware of Colonel Phillips beside her, hunched against the cold. Peggy had turned to him, blinking away the icy tears in her eyes, something inane on her lips about the colors of the clouds. Phillips had kept his eyes on the sky and before she could speak, said in an aggrieved tone, "Well, thank God that's finally over. Now we can get some work done. Come on, Lt Carter. We've got a war to win."

Now, in her narrow spinster's bed, Peggy smiled against the pillow and rolled over, burrowing back under the covers. A horn blared in the street below, fading away into the faint noise of traffic and passing voices. Too faint. The road repair at the end of the lane was tardy – she could hear the newsseller at the corner. Peggy stretched, reached for the bedside clock, and as her fingers closed on it, the thought came back to her – _holiday_. Whitsun. No, the new one – Spring Bank Holiday.

The BNF would be on minimal staffing, with all the clerks on their day off, and half the secretaries. Dr Henrys was away, and had been, and no one would be calling for him.

She rolled upright anyway, still clinging to the clock, and was halfway to her feet before the flush of warmth swept over her. The clock went tumbling to the floor in a jangling crash. Her skin prickled under the thin nightgown, crawling as though a handful of ants swarmed over her.

"Christ," she muttered. "Bloody hell." She sat there, head hanging, nails digging into the mattress, before giving up and going to the kitchen and the icebox.

Leaning over the sink, a fistful of ice clutched to the nape of her neck, she thought of spending the day in her flat, or worse, at the coffee house, and felt the pool of despair wash against her. _Enough. What will they do, find you redundant?_

With the buses on the half-day schedule, there was no profit from rushing about. A wash-up would help with the heat. She wrapped the ice in a napkin and went to draw a bath. Wash. A cuppa. Then into the office, where surely she could find something to make herself useful.

_One thing after another_. As a mantra, it had pulled her through any number of horrors.

It was nearly ten before she turned down Euston Street and found herself again marveling at the perfect horror of the so-called architecture of the British Non-Ferrous Metals Research Association. No matter how long she worked there, she was not going to find _that_ attractive. _Won't be a problem much longer dear, will it?_ The horrid thing would have to offend someone else daily. Against expectations, she found the front door open and a skeleton staff shuffling about. She nodded to the door guard and took the stairs to her office. Halfway there, she passed Lorrie Black's desk, only to have the secretary come out from behind it and call after her, in the execrable new style, "Ms Carter!"

Reluctantly, Peggy turned. And here was Miss Black actually bustling down the hall, pity she didn't attack filing the way she followed up on gossip. "Oh, Ms Carter. So glad I caught you. There are some gentlemen here, conducting interviews. If I saw you, you're to go down to the conference room in Euston 100." Lorrie thrust out a slip of paper. "Here. They gave a particular time."

Peggy took it, smiling without intent at Lorrie, who had barely a brain in her bottle-gold head but a delightful way with the telephone and the research assistants. "Any idea what they were about?"

"The list was of the older research directors and their secretaries – perhaps…" Lorrie's voice dropped, "Perhaps it's a redundancy review…we all thought it was so very unfair, that you weren't going to go with us to Wantage."

"Yes, well, I'm certain they had their reasons." The paper said 10:15, Flight Lieutenant Vanderson. _Military, and RAF, not Navy. Interesting._ "I'll just put my coat in my office, shall I, and then pop down and see what they'd like to chat about."

"Shall I make a cup? I've just put the kettle in…"

Peggy smiled. "That's so kind, dear. I'm sure they'll have something downstairs."

"Of course," and that was all Lorrie had thought to say. Peggy watched her tap her way back down the hall, before opening Dr Henrys' office and dropping her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk. Henrys was still gone, his son's wedding not scheduled until Wednesday.

Downstairs, they were expecting her, and they did not offer her tea. She sat upright in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. The young man – the _Air Officer_ – behind the desk flipped through the folder on the desk before him, glancing up at her from time to time. Peggy kept her temper through a series of inane questions about the types of work she did for Dr Henrys, and what hours she kept, and if he were in the habit of working late, and how often she had to tidy Dr Henrys' desk. When Flt Lt Vanderson began tapping his pen on his teeth, she decided she'd had enough.

"Young man, I would like to speak to your supervisor."

"Sorry?" The expression on his face was befuddled.

"I would like," she said through gritted teeth, "to speak to your supervisor. Or his supervisor."

"No, I'm afraid not, that's not possible at this time-"

"Or to someone who has either reviewed my file prior to beginning an investigative interview, or, failing that, has the skill to intimidate me into a nervous betrayal of intent. In short, someone not you."

"I – Miss Carter, I beg your pardon…"

"You are unqualified to interview me at the depths which are required for a security breach of the magnitude which has occurred. Either you will fail to adequately investigate all possible avenues of information leaks, or you will yourself compromise the very programs you are intent on attempting to protect. Most likely both."

"Security - Miss Carter, I don't know…"

She took a deep breath and let it out again. "As I said, you are not qualified. Get me someone who is."

The puppy had the nerve to try to stare her down. Peggy glared back.

Twenty minutes later, she was ushered into an empty office on the second floor. An older man – wisps of white hair, skin gone soft around the eyes and wrists – stood behind the desk, looking out over Euston. The door shut behind her. Peggy stood.

"Miss Carter. You're making today's work very difficult for my men."

"My apologies, sir. I didn't realize they were working, with the holiday and all."

In silhouette, against the bright window, she could not tell if he was smiling, but she thought he might be. "The new regulations are confusing to us all. Please, Miss Carter, have a seat."

She smoothed her skirt as she settled. The man remained at the window. Warmth crept up her torso, flooding over her face and down again. Clenching her jaw against the _bio-glandular cellular process_, Peggy waited it out, knowing the sweat would plaster her linen shirt to her body. She said, "You have the advantage of me."

"You're sweating, Miss Carter. Nervous?"

She leaned back into the chair. "Not in the least."

"You sure? You don't look very comfortable."

"I'm going through the change of life. Many days are like this. Uncomfortable does not mean nervous."

He did not even have the grace to look abashed. "They said you were the cool, unflappable sort. Perfectly punctual, always on time, sensible and polite. Quite competent."

"Did they."

"Quite. I'm at a loss as to why your name ended up on the redundancy list."

"If it were relevant, I might be inclined to speculate."

"Mmm. Be that as it may, there is obviously no reason to consider leaving you on the redundancy list. You are free to return to your duties. A formal notice will be sent to you later in the month."

She remained seated. "And the security breach?"

He turned away from the window, but not in surprise. "Pardon?"

"You are not conducting interviews on a nominal holiday, without notice, with ad-hoc staff, and without approval from the board or the Ministry, in order to confirm a redundancy list."

"They did say you were sharp."

"They evidently say many things."

"That they do." He came around the edge of the desk, settled one hip against it. "In this case, I believe they were correct. Miss Carter, I apologize for Flt Lt Vanderson – he should not have drawn your case file. Pure random chance."

"Was it now."

"Yes."

She leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms. "What of the security breach?"

He did not lie to her. "Not your concern."

"I think that it is."

"Miss Carter, we have men whose particular task it is to investigate these things. Trained men –"

"Trained children, judging by the staff you've brought here today. Which nursery did you nick them from? I swear I have nylons older than half of them."

"We have the situation well under control…"

"Like hell you do. And if you think I'll just sit here and watch you muck about until the projects that men spent lives and fortunes protecting slip away, you've another thought coming. And don't give me that nonsense about the atomic projects," she went on, as he opened his mouth to say…something. "Bright and brash and yes, very much in everyone's minds, but that's not the only thing that's ever been researched here." There was a box in the basement below Euston 85, with the metallurgy data from Project Rebirth. Samples and diagrams and a photograph of the scars a service pistol had made on a vibranium disk.

Something shifted on his face. _Yes_. "Nuclear power is the most significant weapon in the world today. This on-going Cold War will be won by-"

"In my experience, sir, wars are won by soldiers as much as by weapons, and by discipline in hand with innovation." God. She was shaking. And sweating. A trickle ran down her nose. She swiped angrily at the dampness.

He considered her.

"They said that you were ice – cool and unflappable. Nothing could make you sweat. Not blind night drops into occupied France, not deep cover operations in the Sinai, not parliamentary sub-committee hearings where you had a deeply regrettable habit of 'not ever really reading the things I typed, sir'." He mimicked a falsetto voice for the last.

"I don't, actually."

"They say you have a near-perfect photographic memory."

"Training, not inborn." Training, and the effects of terror.

"You left the Defense Ministry."

"I was sacked, along with a full quarter of the female staff."

"Far more left on their own. Went back to family, homes, children."

"Well, yes. Many. Wonderful for them."

"There were many young soldiers looking for work. And wives. Even the Americans." He waited a beat, and if he was disappointed when she did not react, it never reached his face. "And years later, here you are, a spinster, working as staff, at a level clearly below your abilities. On projects which, while no longer atomic in focus, remain vital to national defense."

They had, she realized, shifted to the main focus of the interview. "I have spent a great deal of my life dedicated to the defense of England." Nearly all of it, if one counted sleepless nights and night terrors. "I heard a General say, once, that there was no end to the good one could do, if one did not care who got the credit."

That brought a smile. "I was actually there when Patton made that statement. Not the sort of sentiment I had grown to expect from him." He touched the file on the desk. "You may have read in the papers that Ethel Gee was released this month, along with her compatriot, Houghton."

Peggy blinked. "I – yes, I had."

"Love is a powerful motivator, for so many things."

She stared at him. For a long moment, she did not comprehend what he meant to imply. Then she was out of her chair, on her feet and advancing on him. "You bastard. How dare you imply – betray my country, for a lover! And with w_ho_? There is – there is-" she slashed the air with one hand, pointing at the decades behind her. "There _was_ one, _one_, thirty years gone, and he would never have asked me, and I would never have agreed, and your staff are bumbling fools if this is the theory they constructed! Fools! I weep for England, if this is the protection we have now!"

The expression on his face never changed. Abruptly, she turned away and strode to the window, shoving it open and leaning out into the breeze.

When she had her breath back under control, she spoke over her shoulder. "It is a secretary you suspect. One of the women."

"Yes."

"Because you haven't had any success, tracing financial irregularities. So it must be some other motivation."

"Yes. I myself doubted love, but blackmail remains a possibility. A single woman, a spinster…there was some discussion of possibilities. Other agencies were more emphatic in their suppositions. I am afraid that the quality of British spycraft is not at its height."

"Obviously." She turned around, leaned on the windowsill. "Still, why this clumsy attempt to flush out your spy?"

"As I said, there are several agencies, with competing agendas and timelines. We have the opportunity, with the planned move to Wantage, to cut away rotten and suspect wood. Careful carving will leave the main structure intact."

"So the redundancy list."

"Yes."

"Which…does not include your suspect."

"Sharp," he said. "It does include two suspects, but three others remain on staff. An oversight, difficult to rectify, and of little note when the move to Wantage was further delayed. But now that schedule is in jeopardy. We risk bringing the traitor with us, but have not enough evidence to act openly. A delay may permit some… opportune career shifts. After retirement, a civil servant is not privy to many secrets, and the problem resolves itself, to the satisfaction of some."

Peggy frowned, ran through the list of senior staff, mentally tabbing those on the verge of being pensioned off, against those on the redundancy list.

"What do you need of me?"

A genuine smile. "Nothing so dangerous as dropping out of an aircraft in the dead of night. Only take a position of lesser note, in a different section. Perform the duties there assigned. And watch."

"Who?"

"Miss Carter, did I know that, you and I would not be talking." A tap at the door. He raised his voice. "One moment." To Peggy, he passed a note. "This is the office, and the department head." She took the paper, and with the department name put faces and personalities on to the people she would greet and befriend and, if all went well, eventually betray. "I will be in touch."

She nodded, wishing for a damp handkerchief. "You, sir? Or Flt Lt Vanderson?"

Again that genuine smile. "I would not want to risk further damage to the Lieutenant."

She made her way back to Dr Henrys' office without intersecting Lorrie. At her desk, she did not sit, but began emptying the drawers of her personal effects.

From under the pencil tray in the center drawer, she took a letter, post-marked America.

The pages slid from the envelope readily, but unfolded reluctantly, stiff from so long unread.

_Lexington, Kentucky_

_July 1969_

_Dear Peggy,_

_I wanted to thank you for your lovely letter. The last few weeks have been very difficult to deal with, and made much better by the kind remembrances of Chessie's old friends and servicemates. Such a long career he had, and so many changes in the years we'd been married. When he first joined the army, it was as a lieutenant of cavalry, can you believe? And now we will send men to the moon. Such an amazing century… _

_Chessie told me so many stories of the places he went, of the people he served with, and yet I could note when the story could not be told in full. Most of the stories he told of you and Captain Rogers were like that. I find myself thinking over those untold tales, and praying for some assurance that the gaps are filled over with success and all manner of good things._

_I hope you will forgive me for this aimless sort of prying – I understand that there are things which may not be spoken of, even so many years later. But at the end of my days with Chessie, I have found my grief to be sopped away by the memories of many years together, of his long and successful career, and with the love of our children and grandchildren surrounding me. I wish such joy and peace to every one of my acquaintance, and most of all to those who have been such excellent friends to myself and Chessie._

_With much love,_

_Mrs. Sarah Phillips_

Peggy ran her fingers along the edges of the pages, feeling the weight of the words out of match with the heft of the yellowed pages.

Steve was gone, and Phillips and the Commandos. She had not spoken with Howard Stark in more than a decade. The woman who had been Captain Carter was no more. The world they had fought to save…was no more.

She let the pages fold back over each other, hiding the words away. "Morning is over," she said, to Sarah, to the yellowed pages, to the empty room. "Time to get to work."

[end]

* * *

**Title:** Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali - Chapter Six: Eris at Evening

Summary: Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood.

Characters: Betty Ross. Movieverse canon relationships.

Author's Notes: Set in movieverse, pre-_Avengers_, post-_Captain America_. For the context of this last section, interested readers are advised to look up Ethel Gee, Melita Norwood, and the British Non-Ferrous Metals Research Agency. Thanks to Flora and Kernie for beta, encouragement and virtual chocolate when needed. All errors (esp the Brit-specific ones) remain my own.

Eris is, of course, one of the daughters of Mars.

Disclaimer: Not mine; they were broken when I found them.


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